The Anthropocene Dream

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Howl!

In the fullness of death

life stills: a silent threnody

of loss, a prayer

to sorrow.

Lie within

this echo of grief,

seek solace in the quiet;

it holds no cure

but nurtures our soul

and honours the past

then, when the moon comes full

and spirit is aroused

open your heart to the mystery and

howl. Howl!

Howl with the primeval blood that sings of the yellow cedar, 1000 years old, and the ancient stones that gave birth to each note. Howl to the smoldering magna that shift the roots of mountains making them rise, yes, rise through layers of history embedding us to this earth and then howl as you emerge to the fern unfurling in spring and the butterfly shedding her cocoon to the nascent salmon berry on her bed of new growth. Howl from the deepest part of your soul to the gnats swarming over fecund land so recently recast from the winter snows and howl to the sparrow who impatiently awaits. Then reach high into the sky and howl

to the stars shining bright

pushing beyond the veils of

doubt and

howl, howl!

to the beauty of all there is

and know

you are not alone.

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The Couch

Fred gestures roughly towards the love seat in front of the shuttered building and bids me to sit. Before us are two big box bins holding space on a couple of parking stalls. I perch on the couch's solid arm. He glares at me: “Not there!” and I am bullied onto the pillowy softness beside him. I sit straight-backed fearful of bedbugs.

Fred tells me he is moving again. He’s been sleeping at the church but lately the noise had gotten to him—daycare begins early and do-gooders are there till sometimes past eleven. “And the minister wants to have lunch with me!”

“Maybe you should go and complain about the other tenants,” I say. Despite my misgivings my back has relaxed into its natural slouch against the cushions.

“I am thinking of bedding down here,” he says, “best place in town when the sun is shining.” His voice has softened with the warmth of the morning but his long white hair and beard has the look of Moses come down from Mount Sinai.

“Beer?” asks Fred, gesturing to his own. I decline as my old boss walks by. I wave. He smiles uncomfortably and walks on. I laugh as I tell Fred and sink deeper.

Fred and I’ve known each other for twenty years. He once defended me against a bully when I worked in a homeless shelter and now lives a few blocks from me in this rather tony neighbourhood. He still takes care of me. “Want some veggies?” he asks as I get ready to leave. Ignoring my protests that I have already done my shopping we walk to the back of the building where shade keeps the air chilly. 

“You pay too much for your food," he says, "IGA dumps out whatever’s not perfect and its all free.” I look inside the black garbage half filled with greens. Mold has taken over the bountiful fare. “Guess it needs some sorting,” he mumbles.

I nod in silence and drive away.

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